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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30024537">deeper roots</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/klassmartin/pseuds/mjonesing'>mjonesing (klassmartin)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Break ups and break ins, F/M, Post-Break Up, reunited and it feels so angsty, though is it really breaking in if you have a key and your name is on the lease hmm, total ignoring of the standard mode of play for Game of Life</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 23:08:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,959</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30024537</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/klassmartin/pseuds/mjonesing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know it’s 5am, right?” He nods towards the bottle she’s just taken a swig from. “Not exactly drinking hours.”</p>
<p>“I’m celebrating.” Her next sip is deliberately long. “Also… What is time if not a social construct? If I want to drink my ex-boyfriend’s wine while being stuck in our old apartment because of a storm, then that’s what I’m going to do.”</p>
<p>Peter’s expression falls into something that sours her potential good mood. “Is that all I am? Your ex-boyfriend?”</p>
<p>-----</p>
<p>Or: A freak storm forces two ex lovers to deal with the broken pieces of their relationship.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Michelle Jones/Peter Parker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>73</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>deeper roots</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Note to self: do not expect to write anything but emotional angst after two straight days of Folklore and Evermore. Blame 'peace' for this.</p>
<p>Title from the Dolly Parton quote.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be kind this is the first thing I've written in three months.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Michelle has always had a distaste for idioms. The more corny and overused, the more it irritates her. In a language bursting with a wide array of beautiful descriptive words, why fall back on mindless turns of phrases like <em> jumping out of your skin </em> or <em> over the moon </em> or <em> having cold feet? </em></p>
<p>There is a reason that idiom is only one letter away shy of idiot.</p>
<p>But right now, cowering beneath a storefront with the tattered remains of her umbrella, the only way to describe the weather is <em> the heavens have opened.  </em></p>
<p>Because the rain slashes against her icy skin like a thousand angels are in mourning, Zeus’s unrelenting fury slicing apart the sky. She can barely hear the shouts of the terrified few that still dare to be outdoors, or the squealing of brakes as zero visibility sends vehicles colliding, but the cacophony of noise presses in on her to an almost suffocating effect as her options dwindle with every whip delivered by the wind.</p>
<p>Her childhood home sits dry and empty thirty blocks away. All that stands between her and safety is a city in chaos. </p>
<p>Unless. </p>
<p>No. That’s madness. Surely she has another way to -</p>
<p>A whine. A flash. A beat of silence. </p>
<p>The city that never sleeps stops under a blanket of darkness. The cut on her palm from her umbrella throbs once, twice, three times over.</p>
<p>The shattering of glass. A yell. The scream of a siren. </p>
<p>There’s no way she’s getting across town, not in a power outage - she has mere minutes before New York descends further into the depravity of what people will do under the assurance of the dark. </p>
<p>She stuffs her hand into the drenched bottom of her bag, the cold slip of metal quick to meet her trembling fingers. </p>
<p>For ten months she’s been asking herself why the key still sits amongst the collection stored on the cracked M keyring. Now, it seems, she’s finally found her answer. </p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>She knocks first.</p>
<p>It’s been nearly a year, but little has changed. There’s the muffled echo of the neighbours bickering, emergency lights flickering as the rain fights against the panes of glass that shake in their frames. Blue paint still peeks through the peeling layers of burgundy around the tarnished metal number plates. The stain from a night she tries to forget still lingers on the concrete floor beside the doormat. Her knees ache as they remember how long she spent there, scrubbing and scrubbing through her tears. </p>
<p>As expected, there’s no response - the pros to standing on the doorstep of one of the few people crazy enough to be <em> out </em>in this - so she slips the key into the lock, lifts it up and across by muscle memory alone, before feeling the bolt relent and twist with her motion. The hinge still squeaks in a way that shouldn’t feel comforting. Perhaps the crisis she's found herself in is making her overly sentimental. </p>
<p>Predictably, the lights remain off when she flicks the switch, so she drops her keys in the dish and elects to ignore the twinge in her chest at the sound of the two sets meeting once more. She tugs her phone out of her coat pocket to turn on the flash, shadows jumping to attention as she fights her way out of a raincoat that didn’t live up to its name. </p>
<p>Her gaze stays on the ground as she toes off her shoes. It’s going to be another minute before she can bring herself to actually look at the apartment that used to be half hers. </p>
<p>The emergency candles are exactly where she left them, and she tugs at the faulty drawer until she can get them out. The sound of the lighter is loud in the quiet room, and as the candles flare to light she can’t stop herself from finally <em> seeing </em>. </p>
<p>How can a place be so different, yet exactly the same?</p>
<p>Her bare feet pad silently across the floorboards - an original feature that she’d discovered a month into living here, hidden beneath an awful shag carpet - until they meet the frayed beginning of the rug her father had dragged all the way from the thrift store downtown. </p>
<p>Something swells in her chest - not quite sadness; a little hollower, like the absence of an emotion she can’t identify. </p>
<p>A sweatshirt rests across the back of the sofa, a forgotten basket of laundry on the coffee table. There’s a mug beside it, steam sparkling in the candlelight, swirling in the sharp breeze from the cracked window that leads to the fire escape. Michelle shivers at the stark reminder of how wet her clothes are, not wasting a second to peel the jeans from her legs, to discard her jumper for the promise of whatever is warm and dry.</p>
<p>The shirt smells strange as she tugs it over her head. That lump of <em> something </em> grows a little larger at the possibility of why. </p>
<p>The sweatshirt is a welcome relief to the chill, and the joggers she finds in the bottom of the laundry pile stop just shy of her ankles. She scratches her fingernail absently against the nail polish stain on the left thigh and grabs her clothes to make the trek into the bathroom, where she can wring them out and hang them in the shower. She makes quick work of it, coaching herself through each step to stop her mind wandering to the pair of toothbrushes above the sink, or the floral shampoo bottle tucked into the back corner of the caddy. </p>
<p>She’s fine. This is all completely fine. Why wouldn’t she be fine while alone in the place she once shared with her ex?</p>
<p>If a stray tear or two escapes her eyes to blend into the wet fabric, that’s nobody’s business but her own.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>With a complete lack of electricity, there’s not a lot to do in a home that’s no longer hers; the only few items that survived the rain including a half-pack of mints and a phone on 16%. Choosing to preserve the battery, she considers chewing on mints until the hunger pans disappear before taking a pear from the fruit bowl. It doesn’t take long to finish, not when time is stretching without a definitive end in front of her.</p>
<p>Boredom quickly sets into her perpetually busy mind. She bandages her hand, thumbs through an old magazine, braids her damp hair away from her face - twice when the first attempt fails, her upper arms burning with the effort of working through the wind-induced tangles - plumps and fluffs the sofa cushions until they’re perfect enough for a promotional shoot for IKEA. Two of them are new, a shade of yellow she’d never have allowed next to the soft blue pillowcases from her momentary dalliance into textiles.</p>
<p>The lure of getting lost in her memories gives way to annoyance at the layer of dust atop the TV, how disorganised the half-empty bookshelf is, that the stovetop still doesn’t work on one side - she thanks past-Michelle for insisting on a gas range, the squeal of the boiling kettle prompting the first positive emotion she’s been able to experience since making the decision to come here. The warmth of her tea finishes the long process of returning her to a normal temperature. She sips it carefully while perched on the kitchen counter, looking out at the dimly lit space and trying to find a spot that doesn’t drown her in the ghosts of her previous life.</p>
<p>At some point between moving to the sofa and now she must doze off, for when her eyes spring open, she’s met with the sight of Spiderman against the backdrop of a terrifying lightning strike, the roaring thunder failing to drown out the pounding of her heart as he pulls off his mask to reveal the shocked and concerned eyes of Peter Parker. </p>
<p>“MJ?”</p>
<p>“Hey, Peter.” She manages a grimace. “Surprise?”</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Her tea is cold.</p>
<p>That is what she’s focusing on.</p>
<p>Her tea is cold and she’s no longer warm in this sweatshirt that belongs to her ex who is still standing before her like he’s seen a ghost, which is kind of true since the last time he saw her she was walking out the front door with her bags packed, which is actually a great-sounding option right now if she can just -</p>
<p>The wind howls through the window; a reminder that her options consist of this or <em> that </em>.</p>
<p>Which option is worse? The dripping of Peter’s suit against the floor is almost tempting when she considers the complexities of her relationship with the man inside of it.</p>
<p>“Are you wearing my clothes?”</p>
<p>It’s the first time either of them has spoken in minutes, yet she feels ill prepared for the way the words pierce her little bubble of denial.</p>
<p>“Uh, yeah.” She chews on her bottom lip and grasps the cold mug a little tighter. “My clothes got… I was stuck in the storm. I can -”</p>
<p>“No, no. It’s okay.” He holds up his hand to object her beginning to pull at the zip. “It’s fine. I’m glad you were able to get out of it; be safe here. In my apartment... In New York.”</p>
<p>He’s spiralling, the furrow of his brow more pronounced by the flickering light to his left. A year ago, she’d have smoothed her thumb across the spot, let him tug her into his arms until his brain caught up with his mouth enough to say something ridiculous and sweet.</p>
<p>Now, she tears her gaze away from his chin and whispers, “Yeah.”</p>
<p>“You’re in New York again,” he continues, feet carrying him closer until his shadow falls across her feet. “H-Why? Why are you here?”</p>
<p>The biting retort is out before she can stop herself. “I didn’t realise you had a monopoly on the city.”</p>
<p>Peter finally looks at her, fog clearing from his eyes. “Hey, no, that’s not what I meant. Don’t twist my words. I just - You haven’t been back here since we… I figured you’d never come back.”</p>
<p>Michelle’s hesitation is enough of an answer.</p>
<p>“Oh. I see.” Peter clears his throat. “Well, I should probably… Change. Then maybe we could talk? Catch up?”</p>
<p>There’s nothing she has left to say, but; “Sure. I’ll put the kettle on.”</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“Sorry for turning up here unannounced.” Michelle stirs the sugar into Peter’s tea, keeping a vigil over the tiny whirlpool. “I couldn’t make it to the other side of town and this was the only place I could think of that was nearby.”</p>
<p>Peter clatters about behind her, and when she finally finds the nerve to turn around, the apartment is suspiciously tidier than before. “You’re always welcome here, MJ. You know that.”</p>
<p>“Still, I should have called. And I’ll leave the key, this time.”</p>
<p>Peter’s smile is tense, taking the steaming mug from her grip with a nod of thanks. There’s a new candle lit - scented, something that’s sweet and crisp and unlike what she’d expect of him - and he’d bought more blankets out of the bedroom to counteract the chill. The one he hands her is as familiar as it is worn, and she can’t help wondering if he chose it deliberately, trying to dredge up hazy memories of their first night in this very room, filled only with a mattress, this blanket and their heavy breaths.</p>
<p>“You don’t have to. I never got round to taking your name off the lease, so…” Peter fidgets while she settles into the furthest space, back against the sofa arm, feet tucked up beneath her. When it’s safe to take her eyes away from the potential spill risk, she’s surprised to see him studying her. “You look good, MJ.”</p>
<p>“Oh. Thanks. You don’t look so bad yourself.” </p>
<p>She fights the urge to physically roll her eyes at herself. Who is she kidding - her superhero ex looks great, especially in that grey henley that sits so snugly around his shoulders - but what else should she expect?</p>
<p>“How is it out there?” she continues when she sees the softest hue of pink colour his cheeks, nodding her head towards the outside world that suddenly seems so very far away.</p>
<p>“About as bad as you’d expect. A lot of panic, mostly.” Peter’s fingers drift to the final remains of what she’s sure used to be a fractured cheekbone. “Miles took over patrol, said I should get back and rest up.”</p>
<p>Experience tells her not to think about what kind of trouble it must have taken for Peter’s protege to send him home, and to not bother asking; if Peter wants to talk about it, he will. And why would he talk to her about that kind of thing anyway? It’s not her place to hear the tales of his other life anymore.</p>
<p>“How have you been?” Peter asks, an edge of desperation to his tone. “You got a new job, right?”</p>
<p>Curse Ned and his big mouth. She takes a sip of her tea before launching into the same spiel she gives her relative at the holidays, detailing the bare minimum to explain the outreach program that’s taken her all around the country in the past six months. Peter drinks in every word, jaw slack as she touches on the various sights she’s seen that are worthy of a bucket list. The more she talks, the more difficult it becomes to stop; if she can keep this up, then surely they’ll never be forced to tackle the gaping wounds that still remain in the space between them before the storm passes.</p>
<p>But there’s a clap of thunder so loud it feels like the whole building shakes with it, the lightning so vivd it must surely be on top of them. Peter’s already grabbed her tea before she can flinch and drench herself again, the hairs on his arm standing on end against the white light.</p>
<p>“You okay?”</p>
<p>“Of course I am.” She follows his gaze to the closed window. “If you need to go…”</p>
<p>Peter shakes his head, relinquishing her mug and focusing back on her. “I’m good here.”</p>
<p>That stupid knot of <em> something </em>comes back in a big way. “You don’t have to stay for me.”</p>
<p>She doesn’t mean for the comment to be so charged, but the flare of pain she’s barely been suppressing flares in her chest until Peter’s the one flinching.</p>
<p>“MJ, that’s -”</p>
<p>“Can we just agree to not talk about it?” Curling in on herself a little tighter, she stares at the crack in the ceiling and tries to breathe through the mess of emotions that threaten to overwhelm her. “I shouldn’t be here, but I am, so let’s just get through it, okay?”</p>
<p>“MJ.” Peter reaches for her hand, but she throws the blanket up to block his path and jumps out of her seat.</p>
<p>“I’m hungry. Got any snacks?”</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>She ends up cobbling together a meal with the dried pasta and pesto she finds in the cupboard, moving about the kitchen like it’s her own - and it once was, but with every cupboard she opens she realises how this apartment has spent much of the last ten months locked in time, the only changes minimal and new.</p>
<p>Peter wisely stays out of her way, retiring to the bedroom to make a call. He speaks in hushed tones but the walls are paper-thin, so it only takes a few minutes to pick up her name. What is Ned’s reactions to her sudden appearance? She can imagine him pacing his own apartment three states away, or perhaps losing all ability to stand at the very idea of his best friend’s being forced to reunite.</p>
<p>What she wouldn’t give to have him here right now: a much-needed buffer to Michelle and Peter’s broken edges.</p>
<p>She finishes her pasta before he emerges, giving her enough time to curse herself out for wasting any possibility of sleep on the short nap that’d ruined her alone time. If only Peter didn’t know her so well as to see through any potential attempt of escape. She’d give anything to be able to sleep through the next few hours of this storm, even if she had to fake it.</p>
<p>She’s stroking a finger down the spine of a book she thought she’d lost when he returns to the common area. Peter hovers, unsure, and it irks her more than it should. She tugs the book free and fakes interest in the review quotes on the back, pretending to walk to the sofa instead of just away. When he follows her, returning to the spaces they had occupied before, she can see his frown in her peripheral vision, but doesn’t understand why until he grabs the closest candle and snatches her hand towards him.</p>
<p>“Hey!” she protests, but Peter is already peeling back the medical tape to reveal the cut that slices through her palm.</p>
<p>“What happened?”</p>
<p>“Nothing.” There’s a beat punctuated only by the single raising of an eyebrow. “My umbrella doesn’t <em> do </em>rain, apparently.”</p>
<p>His mouth quirks up at her irritation but he doesn’t say anything else. Maybe it’s because he knows she’s done a stellar job of fixing herself up from years as her practise doll, or perhaps it’s the stifling air that suddenly surrounds them when they both realise in the same second that they’re <em> touching </em>.</p>
<p>His fingers are warm and gentle against her knuckles, thumb pressing the tape back into place with deliberate slowness. Can he feel how violently her pulse pounds against him, like it’s calling out to him somehow? Does he hear the rush of blood in her ears when he glances up at her through his eyelashes? There’s such a complexity to his dark eyes in the candlelight, endless and timeless and captivating.</p>
<p>Once upon a time, that look belonged to her.</p>
<p>But there’s two toothbrushes in the bathroom with the wrong type of shampoo, and a candle that doesn’t smell like him that’s been burnt almost to the end, and a delicate china mug in the cupboard that Peter would never buy in fear of shattering it with one slip-up of his strength.</p>
<p>“Peter…” It’s not meant to sound like a plea, but he seems to understand because he lets her hand go and disappears to the kitchen, the sound of Peter serving himself food echoing in time with the rain around the place she used to call home.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Eventually she’s capable of moving, so heads to the heavy chest Peter had repurposed once to create her a little window bench. Stored inside are a litany of board games, decks of cards, and cases for a wide variety of video games that she’d probably trounced him at least twice at. Game of Life is buried beneath a battered Ludo board, a scoreboard with the letters M and P scrawled on the front of the box in Sharpie.</p>
<p>Before she can consider the potential consequences, she’s pulled it out and Peter’s nodding to her silent question.</p>
<p>Peter clears the last of the laundry from the coffee table while she takes the cups and dishes to the kitchen, and she fetches the clock and two cushions to sit on as Peter lays out the board. There’s no discussion required for this; Michelle takes the pink and yellow car while Peter takes green and blue, each vehicle's assets divided into clear piles; left for career, right for college.</p>
<p>Peter reaches across the board with his hand, and it only takes half an inhale to meet him in the middle and shake.</p>
<p>Peter flips the coin stored in the box for just this purpose. He doesn’t ask what she wants to call. He knows she always chooses head.</p>
<p>The coin lands. Michelle smirks.</p>
<p>“Every time…” Peter mutters, but she’s already hitting the chess clock and spinning the wheel, moving her pink car at the same time as selecting her action card.</p>
<p>She hands over the money and slaps the clock, jolting Peter into action. He moves the green car his allotted spaces and takes his card, pocketing another $30 and hitting the clock. Michelle’s yellow car moves this time, collecting her wage with a flourish and ending her turn. Peter’s blue car gets to move ten spaces which makes him huff. Just because they compete to finish in the fastest time doesn’t mean that’s the only way to win: it’s all about the money and the kids, after all.</p>
<p>They bounce back and forth for a while with a practised ease. Peter’s quick, his reflexes an advantage he exercises without restraint; but Michelle is smart, considering her options instead of throwing herself headfirst into whatever the game puts in their path like Peter does. Both her cars collect kids with ease, whereas Peter’s green fortune comes from action cards and the best college career card. The clock has them almost neck and neck with Peter just ahead - a lead she puts entirely on the way his breath had hitched when they’d both landed on the marriage tile together - but she’s getting lower moves than him, racking up more opportunities than luck wants to deal his way. The blue car is only seconds away from retirement, two empty seats making his teeth grind together every time he takes his turn.</p>
<p>But at the last moment, yellow steams ahead and snatches the top tier retirement package, and she almost forgets to hit the clock in her excitement.</p>
<p>“How did - That’s not even <em> possible </em>!” he near-screeches, spinning the wheel with his eyes on the size of her smile as she laughs gleefully. “Michelle Jones, I swear if you cheated -”</p>
<p>“Oh please, like I ever have to cheat to beat your ass at any game in existence.” Michelle slides the pink car along three spaces, picking up a child she doesn’t have the space for. “Maybe your blue car can hold this little one for me while I do my victory lap?”</p>
<p>“You haven’t won yet,” he grumbles, but the slump of his shoulders is all too telling. Her laugh turns into a near-cackle, competitive streak flaring hot and wild in her gut. </p>
<p>In just a few moves, all four cars are parked, the timer paused as they carefully count out their earnings. She’s showboating and he knows it; Michelle’s never been able to resist keeping track of her score throughout the game, so each time she pretends to work out the sum aloud is actually just a dig at Peter’s losing pout. With the addition of the clock, she takes first and second place - only just; green was annoyingly close to snatching the silver from pink - and jumps to her feet to cheer her own victory, almost missing the gentle smile he directs her way as she rushes to the kitchen for the half bottle of red wine she’d spotted earlier, leaving him to clear up.</p>
<p>He joins her a few moments later, stretching his arms above his head and dragging his shirt up to reveal a sliver of skin.</p>
<p>“You know it’s 5am, right?” He nods towards the bottle she’s just taken a swig from. “Not exactly drinking hours.”</p>
<p>“I’m celebrating.” Her next sip is deliberately long. “Also… What is time if not a social construct? If I want to drink my ex-boyfriend’s wine while being stuck in our old apartment because of a storm, then that’s what I’m going to do.”</p>
<p>Peter’s expression falls into something that sours her potential good mood. “Is that what I am? Your ex-boyfriend?”</p>
<p>“I don’t like the other word,” she whispers honestly, swiping her thumb against the stray drop of wine at the corner of her mouth. The rest goes unspoken; <em> It hurts too much </em>.</p>
<p>“That doesn’t have to be all I am.” Peter steps closer, his touch scalding as he takes the bottle from her grasp. “We used to be friends, you know; before all the other labels. We could be just friends again. I… I miss you, MJ.”</p>
<p>Her eyebrows raise at the deep vibration of his voice. “We were never ‘just’ anything, Peter. What makes you think we could ever manage that now?”</p>
<p>“Because I don’t want to look back in twenty years and have my last memory of you being the day you left.” Peter approaches her, suffocating her with the sincerity in his gaze, trapped between the counter and the fridge and his body.  “I don’t want you to be an almost, MJ. You mean so much to me, and not having you in my life -”</p>
<p>“- was <em> your </em>choice.”</p>
<p>Peter stops, frozen by her accusation.</p>
<p>“I didn’t leave, Peter. You forced me out.”</p>
<p>“What are you talking about? You’re the one who packed her bags and moved to the other side of the country.” His anger only increases when she rolls her eyes at his selective memory. “I <em> loved </em>you!”</p>
<p>“And I didn’t? I was all in, Peter - we were building a life together!”</p>
<p>“Then why did you call off the wedding?!”</p>
<p>It stings like he’s slapped her. How has this man that was once hers - for <em> years </em>- misunderstood her so completely?</p>
<p>A sob rips apart her words. “Because you wouldn’t.”</p>
<p>He looks dumbfounded, like the thought has never occurred to him in the year that’s passed since she slid the ring back across the dining room table; like he’s really spent all that time blaming her for their break up, blind to his own faults.</p>
<p>“I…” His jaw snaps shut, mind racing behind his teary eyes until it catches on something. When his hand cups her jaw, she doesn’t push it away. She lets him search her face for the answers he needs. “I asked you to marry me, Em. I wanted that more than anything. Why would I ask you if I didn’t?”</p>
<p>“You loved me,” she whispers, the surest she’s been of anything she’s ever spoken, “and it terrified you.” </p>
<p>He’s stopped breathing, drowning in her anguish as she finally lays out the truth of their engagement.</p>
<p>“Before you proposed, all my mom would ever talk to us about was when we were going to get married. May kept making all these little jokes; even Ned said over and over that it was about time we took that step. It never mattered to me; we loved each other, chose to be together everyday. But when you turned to me that day on the pier, when you pulled that ring out and said we should get married… I was so happy, Peter. More happy than I ever thought was possible.</p>
<p>“But you weren’t. You started staying out all night on patrol, making excuses for date night, stopped texting me goodnight when you were on missions… You pulled away. Every plan we made for the wedding wasn’t good enough, wasn’t right somehow. And then… I found the invitations you kept promising to send, and I was hurt and heartbroken and so <em> angry </em>, except that was the day I found you right outside that door. The day you nearly...”</p>
<p>Peter’s chin trembles. “MJ…”</p>
<p>“You always kept me hidden.” She swipes at the tear tracks staining her cheeks. “I never thought about it; I’m a private person so it didn’t seem like a big deal. But us getting married… That’s a declaration. A <em> public </em> declaration, for everyone to see. That <em> anyone </em>can see.”</p>
<p>“I was trying to keep you safe.”</p>
<p>“I know. I know you were.” She threads her fingers through his against her cheek, twisting to press her lips against his erratic pulse. “You were scared, but you loved me too much to say it wasn’t what you wanted. So I did it for you, because I loved you too much to keep putting you in that kind of pain.</p>
<p>“But you didn’t see it that way. You couldn’t accept that I was backing out because you were more important than a stupid piece of paper, and by trying to save you, I broke us.”</p>
<p>“You… Why didn’t you say anything?”</p>
<p>“I tried, but it was too late. I was the bad guy to you and everyone we knew in a situation that <em> had </em>no bad guy.” Her chest is empty, her regrets laid bare before her, but the way he looks at her - perhaps, finally, truly seeing her - fills that cavern with someone old and new, something constant and golden. “I’m sorry, Peter, truly. I never meant to hurt you.”</p>
<p>His forehead resting against hers, she can taste the sadness on his skin when he whispers, “I didn’t… I’m so sorry. I didn’t want you to leave.”</p>
<p>“You didn’t ask me to stay.”</p>
<p>“Stay, MJ. Stay with me, please…”</p>
<p>When their lips meet, she doesn’t think about the last time - a rushed goodbye, both with one foot out of the door as she raced to catch her train.</p>
<p>She doesn’t think about how this temporary relief to her broken heart might make it so much harder when the sun finally shines again.</p>
<p>She doesn’t think about the toothbrush or the shampoo, the candle or the mug - or the neatly handwritten note stuck to the refrigerator door.</p>
<p>Instead, she thinks of him.</p>
<p>Peter.</p>
<p>The boy she’s loved since she was too young to understand what love really is.</p>
<p>And she kisses him with every last bit of that feeling she can fathom, until she can no longer taste the difference between his tears and her own.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>He lays her on the bed they once shared like she might shatter at any moment - and she might, if he keeps touching her like that - his shirt gone, her hands trailing down his chest. When he settles over her, his weight a comfort too profound to quantify, there’s no thought behind the way her legs wrap around him, holding him against her as they move to a beat just their own. He remembers exactly where to graze his teeth down her throat, where to grip her tight or with untold softness, how she likes to take charge of his hand and lead him where she needs him. </p>
<p>It should be criminal to feel so good after what just happened in the kitchen, but Peter has always been a lesson in impossible complexities. In fact, it’s one of the things that drew her to him in the first place; a puzzle she couldn’t solve, with every piece a different shade of Peter that she could never quite put together even as the years ticked by.</p>
<p>Yet she understands him, possibly more than anyone else in the world; so when his kisses slow to a stop, she knows it’s not because he’s hesitating but because he’s overwhelmed, and when he smoothes the shirt she stole from him back down her chest it’s to secretly feel her heart beating, and when he buries his face in her neck it’s because nothing centers him quite like surrounding himself with her.</p>
<p>She doesn’t hear it, but she knows the feel of his lips forming those three words that may be even more complex than the person saying them.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Peter falls asleep with her cradled in his arms, the steady rise and fall of his chest warm against her bare back.</p>
<p>It does nothing to stop the frantic spinning of her mind as she tries to fathom what they’ve just done.</p>
<p>It isn’t until his grip goes slack, freeing her from his hold over her, that she can finally breathe. She paces from the front door to the window and back again, consumed by every place her eyes try to land; three years and one night of memories calling her name, vying for her attention like she’s capable of anything but panicking right now. What has this storm done to her? Ten months of struggle and growth and acceptance; all thrown away in one impossible, endless night designed to torment and test her.</p>
<p>Why had they kissed? Why had she let them? Why, when all the reasons they failed were exposed, did they fall back into each other anyway?</p>
<p>Hands tangled in her unravelling braid, she’s mere moments away from insanity, except -</p>
<p>A box.</p>
<p>She stops short, stunned that she hasn’t noticed it before when it seems so obvious to her now. It’s a little worn with time, but it sits beneath a mirror they’d picked out together on their fifth anniversary, the frame more ornate than anything else in the apartment - but it was the first thing they’d purchased together for their new home, after months of dragging home threadbare and rickety pieces of furniture that better suited their recently-graduated incomes.</p>
<p>The box is not taped shut but sits open, its contents hidden from her spot by the sofa - but that’s not what pulls her gaze to it. </p>
<p>It’s her handwriting.</p>
<p>The words themselves are nothing extraordinary - ‘Peter’s dumb trinkets’ - but the relic of their move tugs at her memory. How she’d told him he could unpack it when they found the right shelves to replace the ones left clinging to its fixtures by the previous tenant; how they finally found the right set but Peter didn’t hang them up because the blank wall was his favourite place to press her against as he moved inside her; how when he came home one night from patrol, he found her on top of the stepladder, putting the finishing touches to what was supposed to be his birthday surprise.</p>
<p>Slowly, over time, Peter replaced each of his trinkets with items of their own - the cork from the champagne he bought home after she got promoted, a little Eiffel Tower ornament, a box frame of ticket stubs from all the movies he dragged her to only to spend the two hours paying more attention to her than the screen - dozens of seemingly meaningless items that meant everything to them.</p>
<p>The shelves sit empty now. It was one of the first things she’d noticed when she walked through the door mere hours ago.</p>
<p>She’d thought their contents had been thrown away, discarded in a wave of heartbreak.</p>
<p>But she knows, before she even takes a step towards the box, where they really ended up.</p>
<p>Inside sits cheap refurbished frames filled with her sketches and his photographs, the cork and a playbill for the show he snuck her into while they were at college, a snowglobe and the Spiderman action figure she’d tuck into bed beside her to make him laugh after a long night of patrol - everything that had once been on proud display as symbols of their love.</p>
<p>And there, beneath the photo of the two of them at the beach, windswept and teary eyed and happy for the final time, sits the little velvet box.</p>
<p>Their relationship boiled down to a single cardboard box, including the one thing that tore them apart.</p>
<p>As the first rays of sunshine break through the clouds, Michelle starts to cry.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Peter finds her, spent and hollow, surrounded by their trinkets in the cold light of a new day.</p>
<p>He chooses not to speak, seating himself at her side and waiting for her to collect her scattered thoughts, her dry eyes fixed not on the ring, but on the tight fist in her lap.</p>
<p>“Who’s Gwen?”</p>
<p>“A friend.” He shifts. “How did you -”</p>
<p>“The note. ‘<em> Stay safe out there </em>.’” Michelle’s voice cracks, the post-crying headache pounding too loud in her brain to care. “Does she make you happy?”</p>
<p>“We aren’t… It wasn’t like that. She...” There’s a sorrow to him she doesn’t understand, but he brushes it aside before she can dwell on it. “It’s been a year. I tried to move on.”</p>
<p>“Did you?”</p>
<p>Peter sighs, his breath a gentle caress against her cheek. “No.”</p>
<p>“Neither did I.” </p>
<p>Her hand uncurls, the black glass from their beginning glinting in the sunlight.</p>
<p>“So. What do we do now?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>@mjonesing on Tumblr as always</p></blockquote></div></div>
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